


The Heart Wants

by Songstress42



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2034144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songstress42/pseuds/Songstress42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fact: Sherlock has feelings for John Watson. Fact: Those feelings are interfering with his work. Conclusion: John must go. Pre-Slash. Rated for mild language and scenes of torture later on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted over on FF.net a few years ago. Since I created this account i figured i'd post it here too.
> 
> Enjoy!

It was James Moriarty who finally got Sherlock to see just how much Sherlock felt for John Watson. 

The irony of it was not lost on Sherlock.

But the truth remained; illogical, irrational, incontrovertible. Sherlock had feelings and, what ever they may be; they were inexplicably intertwined with his flatmate. And now that the truth had been pointed out to him (horribly and violently pointed out to him) he found, much to his chagrin, that his mind had become fixated on attempting to rationalize and sort out once and for all what the hell to do with these so called ‘feelings’.

And it was interfering with his work.

Sherlock caught himself staring at the Doctor at crime scenes when there was a perfectly interesting body he could be looking at. In the depths of a complex case when his mind was at its peak, he found images of John superimposing themselves on top of images of the victim. And he was even beginning to find himself strangely fascinated by John’s person. By his facial expressions and body language. By the way he used his hands when he spoke. The way he still limped infinitesimally, not enough to impair his walk but enough that his gait was always recognizable to one with a well trained ear.

It was annoying and it impeded his ability to work and since he did not seem to have any control over himself in the matter, the answer would have to come from John.

Sherlock came to a satisfactory conclusion and had just finished preliminary preparations for his plan when John came through the door with the shopping.

“You need to move out.”


	2. Chapter 2

John froze in the doorway, three bags hanging in his hands, a look of confusion contorting his attractive features.

_Stop thinking about his face!_

“What?”

“You need to move out.” Sherlock repeated with restrained condescendence. He loathed repeating himself.

John stared at him a moment more and then turned and walked into the kitchen and began putting the groceries away.

Sherlock frowned and followed him.

“Did you not hear what I said?”

John looked up from where he was removing some canned beans from the bag.

“Yes Sherlock I heard you.” He said and strode over to the cupboard and began putting them away.

Sherlock waited for him to continue but when it became apparent he wasn’t going to he huffed and exasperation and continued with his line of questioning.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

John was playing with him and Sherlock was not enjoying it. He crossed his arms and sent a dark glare in the direction of the infuriating ( _loveable_ his mind supplied much to his chagrin) doctor.

John laughed which did funny things to Sherlock’s stomach and he was momentarily distracted trying to figure out the connection between John’s laugh and his abdomen.

“Well what do you expect me to say?” John said turning his attention away from the groceries and onto his mad flatmate, “I come in from doing the shopping and you tell me to move out it’s not exactly a scenario I have a lot of experience with.”

He finished speaking and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock found himself at a loss for words as he stared right back into his flatmate’s chocolate brown eyes.

John moved forwards, concern touching the corner of his features.

“What’s going on Sherlock?”

The proximity seemed to be somehow jamming his brain and Sherlock tore his gaze away and strode to the other side of the room, staring out the window and willing his heart rate to slow down. He could hear John pause in the entrance to the living room.

“Nothing.” Sherlock lied, “nothing’s going on I simply feel it best that we not live together anymore.”

Sherlock was finding that this conversation was moving along much better now that he could no longer see John. 

John was silent a moment longer and Sherlock imagined that he was opening and closing his mouth as his mind floundered for something to say and he smiled at the image his mind supplied for him. 

He was not wrong.

“What?!” came the reply, finally, “Are-are you serious Sherlock, tell me you’re not serious. Please tell me this is some kind of joke.”

“Of course I’m serious John.” Sherlock said, starting to turn and catching himself, directing his gaze to the mantle piece, desperately trying not looking at John’s reflection in the mirror, “when have you ever known me to joke about anything?”

“I dunno, I thought maybe you’d finally lost it.”

They were both silent; John in puzzled thought, Sherlock in a furious attempt to keep his mind on the present goal and not wandering off to wonder what it would be like to hug John. 

_Who am I turning into?_

“Look.” John said finally, “I kind of feel like this is coming from nowhere. I mean, I know you think I’m just an idiot-“

“You’re not an idiot.” Sherlock’s head whipped round before he could stop himself and a pain in his chest swelled as he saw the look of raw hurt in John’s eyes.

John frowned and Sherlock turned back to the window, heat rising in his cheeks.

“What is this about Sherlock?”

Sherlock did not answer and it was a testament to how focused he was on not thinking about John that he did not notice the other man’s movements until John was right behind him.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock felt John’s hand rest on his shoulder and felt himself relax. Warmth spread through his body and a feeling he was not familiar with took root in the vicinity of his heart. Thoughts of John filled his mind and he closed his eyes as an overwhelming tide of feelings rushed through him. If one touch from John affected him this much… he inwardly shuddered at the implications. No. This was dangerous. He had a plan and he needed to stick to it. Clearly John was not going to be deterred this easily. John needed to believe he was not wanted here. That was the only way things could go back to the way they had been before.

_Before what?_

Before John had burrowed inside of him and found his heart.

…

Sherlock was silent so long John was beginning to worry but when his flatmate finally turned around, John nearly recoiled at the cold, disinterested expression on Sherlock’s face. John had seen that look before, sure. But it had always been directed at someone else. Criminals, witnesses, Anderson. Never had he felt the effect of having it directed at him.

Sherlock smiled and it sent a shudder down John’s spine.

“I’m sorry John.” He said, a pale excuse for remorse colouring his words, “Perhaps you mistook my meaning. I was trying to imply something in an effort to cushion your feelings but clearly I overestimated your powers of perception. My mistake.”

John gaped at Sherlock’s words. Delivered without a trace of emotion was the most hurtful comment John had ever heard. Bullets he could deal with, hell even Semtex hadn’t slowed him down for long but these words cut through him like a knife and left a cold, gaping wound behind. He had barely reigned in his thoughts when Sherlock opened his mouth again.

“What I meant to insinuate was that I am no longer interested in your services as my assistant and as we are not particularity good friends I feel it would be in both of our best interests that we part company. Since I was the one who originally found this place, and most if not all the furniture is mine, and it is to me that Mrs. Hudson is extending her special deal I believe social protocol dictates you be the one to move out.”

John reeled and his mind stuttered. Nothing in his life up to this point had trained him to deal with this situation.

Sherlock sat down at his laptop leaving John to continue staring out the window. 

Then, suddenly the emptiness inside him left over from Sherlock’s verbal assault was replaced by a swell of anger and he rounded on the man, a tiny part of him wishing his gun was in his hand and not upstairs in his dresser.

“So that’s it then?!” he said to Sherlock’s back, “You expect me to just start looking for a new place?”

Sherlock turned, a genuine look of dismay of his face.

“Of course not John.” He said and for a moment John thought maybe this had all been a joke and Mycroft was about to jump out from behind the curtains with a video camera, “I have already found several suitable places for you to live.”

John felt as though his stomach was being filled with ice water as Sherlock handed him his laptop, a browser window showing several listings for available flats around the city.

John shook his head.

“No.” he said handing Sherlock’s computer back to him and stepping back. “No, I don’t believe you Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s face held no expression.

“We’re friends. We are. We’ve had meals together and enjoyed each other’s conversation. You’ve asked for my advice and hell you didn’t leave when I gave you an out at the pool with Moriarty!” John thought he saw a flicker of emotion on Sherlock’s face at the mention of that night nearly a month ago, “What about that huh?!”

John was shaking now as he waited for Sherlock’s reply.

Sherlock smiled that unnerving smile again; the one that did not reach his eyes, and put his hands in his pockets.

“Dear John.” He said in a pitying tone laced with disdain, “It is true that when we first met I was rather intrigued by you. An ex-military doctor with a psychosomatic limp is not someone you meet everyday after all and I was getting rather desperate for a flatmate. But unfortunately, my interest in you has come to an end and I no longer require your services for my work. As for that night with Moriarty I was simply not done gaining the information I needed from him. It had nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

John stared into the consulting detective’s cold gray eyes…and saw nothing. As a desperate attempt at self-preservation he felt himself slip into soldier mode – armor up, emotions off – and nodded his understanding.

“Well, I’ll just go pack then.” He said quietly, unable to keep his voice from trembling. 

_So much for soldier mode._

He turned and made his way towards the stairs. When he reached the doorway, he turned back. Sherlock had not moved from where he was standing, feet apart, hands in his pockets, his face a blank mask conveying nothing but boredom and distain and it struck John in that moment that Sherlock looked so very much like James Moriarty.

…

Sherlock silently implored John to leave. The tenuous grasp he had on his emotions was weakening by the second and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it up.

But then John looked back with an expression like he was looking at a stranger and Sherlock redoubled his effort at keeping his emotions in check.

“You know.” He said in a soft quiet voice that held within it barely contained rage and hurt, “The first time you ever dragged me to a crime scene and then _abandoned_ me there, Sgt. Donovan told me to stay away from you, that you were a psychopath. Later on that night I heard you describe yourself as a high-functioning sociopath, a fine distinction I’ll grant you, but I never believed either of them. I always thought you were just a man. Emotionally stunted maybe, a genius no doubt, but well meaning nevertheless. I really believed you were a good man deep down, but I can see now how wrong I was and I guess that just helps to prove that I have no business assisting you with your detective work.” 

He turned to go, paused and turned back again. 

“And you know something else? I always considered James Moriarty to be the most evil person I would ever meet but hey! You proved me wrong again because at least he is upfront about was he is. You on the other hand, you made me believe I was your friend. That I was somehow important to you. That I was special.” John practically spat that last word out and Sherlock could see the build up of tears behind his eyes, “But only a psychopath or sociopath or whatever the hell you want to call yourself could have done what you just did and not even care!” John’s voice rose in pitch until he was screaming at Sherlock and it took all his will power not to break, “Because I have seen war Sherlock! I have seen the very panicle of man’s inhumanity to man and I have never felt this wounded. So congratulations. If this was some kind of experiment to see just how much you could hurt me then you succeeded. I’ll leave and you’ll never have to see me again and maybe I’ll think twice next time before I fall in love with a selfish ASS like you!”

And with that he turned on the spot, descended the stairs and Sherlock found himself flinching at the sound of John slamming the door of 221B Baker St with a resounding thud that seemed to carry with it an air of finality.

He stayed standing where he was. Not going to the window to watch John stride angrily away, not rushing down the stairs and out the front door to chase after his enraged…ex-flatmate. Instead he walked slowly into the kitchen to where John had left the groceries lying on the table. He fished a box of tea out of one of the bags and felt a sob wrench itself unbidden out of his chest. He moved to the sink and he retched into it. Sliding down to the floor he pulled his knees into his shaking body and bowed his head as his brain tried to explain to his heart how this was all for the best.


	3. Chapter 3

John told himself the detour he was taking through the park (which would effectively add another half-hour to his walk back to Sarah’s) was because of the lovely view it would afford him and not because the more direct route would force him onto Baker St. So he continued on down the street and ignored the black car that had been tailing him for the past several blocks. As he turned the corner into the park and onto an empty boulevard however, the car sped up and stopped just in front of him.

The rear passenger door opened with all the invitation of a Venus Fly Trap. 

John kept walking.

Behind him, he heard the door close and the engine rev, the car pulling up once again just ahead of him. Only this time, Mycroft Holmes stepped out looking as composed as ever in his three-piece suit. He stood facing John and blocking his progress down the sidewalk. John moved to go around him but Mycroft’s ever-present umbrella shot itself out and halted John’s movements altogether.

John stared down at the offending accessory and then moved his gaze slowly up to meet the government official’s eyes, a dangerous expression building in his own.

“If you ever,” John said in a low, calm voice that sounded like the moment of silence that precedes a thunder storm, “try to stop me with that _thing_ ,” he spat the word out as though the umbrella had personally insulted him, “then I promise you, you will not like where it ends up.”

He held Mycroft’s stare without blinking until Mycroft, like a cat who has simply gotten bored of looking at you, blinked and turned his head in the most appallingly cavalier manner. John afforded himself a small smile at the triumph he had gained by their little staring contest. Then, sighing in resignation he stepped back and once again looked into Mycroft’s cold eyes.

_May as well get it over with._

“What do you want Mycroft?” John said testily.

“I simply wish to speak with you Doctor Watson.” Sherlock’s brother said in his usual, politely condescending tones.

“Well, I think I may have told you this before but just in case it slipped your mind,” John began, sarcasm dripping freely from his words, “I have a phone!” he finished loudly, pulling the aforementioned device from his pocket and trying to quench the painful memories that drawing attention to it usually unearthed, “why don’t you just call me using a phone! Like any other person.”

Mycroft scoffed as if the mere idea was far too plebeian to even think of. 

“Perhaps you would be more comfortable in the car?” he asked, pressing on.

John let out a short humourless laugh.

“I think I’ll stay out here in the open thanks. Being kidnapped isn’t on my list of things to do today and I’m already terribly busy so if you wouldn’t mind…”

Once again John attempted to go around the man and once again the umbrella came out to stop him. John sent Mycroft a dark glare and Mycroft removed the offending accessory and held his hands up on a pacifying gesture.

“Well then, perhaps that bench over there then?” Mycroft indicated a wooden bench overlooking the lake, “I observed form your uneven gait that your leg has been bothering you more and more and after all the walking your little detour demanded I should think it could use a little break.”

Mycroft had said all this with his usual smug smile plastered to his face and John considered for a moment just how much pleasure it would give him to wipe the damned thing off, before answering with a tight smile of his own and moving off toward the bench. Truth be told, John’s leg had begun to ache but he was not giving Mycroft Holmes the satisfaction of knowing that.

John sat down on the bench, his hand coming up to rub at the sore muscle until he saw Mycroft’s smug smile and stopped, closing his fist in a pointlessly defiant gesture.

“Well, what ever it is you want to say, let’s get it over with.” His voice came out harsher then he meant it too. 

_‘Calm down John.’_ He told himself. His left hand resting on his left thigh started to shake and he clasped the quivering limb in his right, trying to quell the tremors.

“I wish to speak to you regarding my brother.”

John willed his face to not give anything away at the mention (however vaguely) of Sherlock, knowing his efforts were pointless with a Holmes brother sitting next to him. He swallowed against the hard lump that had begun to form in his throat.

“I have nothing to say about that.” He said, quieter and less steady then he would have liked.

“Please just hear me out John.”

John blinked and looked round at the man, not quite believing the pleading tone he heard in his voice.

Mycroft was staring out at the lake, face impassive as always but John thought he could see a hint of something in the other man’s eyes. Sadness? Concern? John could not say but he felt a momentary jolt of sympathy for the man. As much as John disliked Mycroft, he had to admit that it could not be easy being the brother of Sherlock and suddenly John thought he understood a bit better the relationship between the two men and perhaps why Mycroft monitored Sherlock the way he did. It was the only way he could feel close to his little brother if Sherlock refused all other forms of affection from him.

John sighed and said, “Fine.” Wondering as he did so, what part of him was crazy or stupid or self-deprecating enough to feel sorry for this man. Probably, he thought, the same part that stayed with Sherlock as long as he had.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

“My brother is not accustomed to experiencing complex emotions and he has built his life around avoiding such, as he puts it, distractions. He learned very early on to repress them, to put them out of him mind. I will not go into detail, the reasons for this behaviour as it is quite a long story and most of it is rather personal.”

A cold weight settled in John’s stomach as the implication of what Mycroft was alluding to got him wondering what had happened in Sherlock’s past that turned him into the cold, sociopath he had come to embody today.

“Suffice to say,” Mycroft continued, “Sherlock was not always this…cut off and I believe the feelings he has suddenly discovered aimed at you have rather frightened him. He did not mean what he said to you that day.”

John rubbed his still trembling left hand with his right, his gaze downcast.

He took a breath.

“I know.” He said quietly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mycroft shift his gaze in John’s direction momentarily before looking back out to the lake.

“Well then–”

John cut him off.

“Before you say anything I should tell you, I will not go talk to Sherlock.” 

“John–”

“NO.”

John’s brown eyes blazed as he stared into Mycroft’s cold blue gaze. The two men sat together locked in a staring contest until finally Mycroft looked down and away.

“Please.”

John continued to look in Mycroft’s direction.

“Are you asking for your sake or Sherlock’s?”

Mycroft looked up at the sudden question.

“I am concerned for my brother Doctor Watson.”

John raised an eyebrow.

Mycroft closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

“I will not however deny that my brother’s current state of mind is having some…unpleasant effects on my life. Mummy is absolutely beside herself.”

John rolled his eyes and let out a humourless laugh.

“Of course this is about you because god forbid you’d ever do anything for someone else unless you had something to gain from it.” He shook his head, “You know, it never occurred to me before but one of the perks of no longer being involved in your brother’s life anymore is not having to involved in yours either.” John said with sarcastic cheer, “I suppose that just goes to show that every cloud has a silver lining. Now, this is the last time I ask nicely. Get in your bloody car and drive away. I will not allow you to manipulate again, and the next time I see you, I will shoot you. Understood?”

The two locked gazes again. The government official and the soldier. The unstoppable force hitting the immovable object. Once again it was Mycroft who looked away first.

He stood, brushing down his immaculate suit as he did so and turned to leave.

“Wait.”

Mycroft turned back. John looked up at him.

“How…how bad is he?”

Mycroft hesitated, the skin on his forehead wrinkling only slightly.

“On the surface he seems fine. He goes about his day much as he always did, solving crimes and what not. But the… _spark_ isn’t there anymore. That energy, that thirst is gone. It is as though he is empty.”

John could feel tears pricking in the corner of his eyes and he turned away knowing full well Mycroft could see them there two.

“Thank you.” He said with a sniff, voice gruff and quiet, “Now kindly piss off.”

He heard Mycroft hesitate and then soft footsteps on the grass, then on pavement, the slam of a door, the rumble of an engine. John looked out over the lake in the light of the setting sun, holding his still trembling hand and finally let himself think about what had happened that night nearly three months ago.

After he’d stormed out he’d gone to Sarah’s and spent hours raging on and on about that stupid, heartless bastard until he’d run out of energy and crashed on the couch. Eventually the couch had turned into the bed and the shift work at the clinic became something more permanent and through all the tedium of normal life he hadn’t thought about Sherlock once. At least all trains of thought that looked like they were leading to Sherlock were aborted then and there and despite this happening several times a day John still adamantly told himself that he didn’t think about Sherlock.

But now he did. He thought about what Mycroft had said about Sherlock’s mental state and past and he though about the things Sherlock had said to him and he could see objectively that Sherlock was just trying to distance himself from emotional harm because Sherlock had the emotional maturity of a four year old.

Yes, objectively he could see how Sherlock hadn’t meant any of the things he’d said but it wasn’t enough because every time John hadn’t let himself think about that man the first thing he saw was Sherlock face and the cold, hard, distant expression on it. The one that said he didn’t care and it had hurt John more deeply than he’d care to admit. The fact that Sherlock was able to say those things, to knowingly cut John that deeply…that was why he could never forgive that man

John rubbed a hand over his tired eyes as the last of the sun set behind the trees. He stood and had to throw out a hand to catch himself on the bench as his right leg buckled beneath his weight. Hissing in pain, he limped to the sidewalk and toward the park exit nearly collapsing twice before he made it to the main road and hailed a cab.

 

Half a mile away, Sherlock Holmes stood in the window of his Baker St flat looking out over the darkening street.

“You spoke to him?” The question was directed at Mycroft who had just entered the room though he didn’t turn around to greet his older brother. His voice was thin and quiet.

Mycroft sighed, “Yes.”

“And?”

“You already know the answer.”

Sherlock turned to look at Mycroft through sunken eyes set in a too thin face. Mycroft set the paper bag he was holding down on the coffee table.

“Please eat something younger brother. You know how much it would grieve Mummy to see you this way.”

Without another word he left and Sherlock once again felt the oppressive silence fill the empty flat. He walked over to the bag of food but did not open it. Instead he curled himself up on the couch and once again completely failed to erase John from his mental hard drive.


	4. Chapter 4

The first time Sarah said I love you to John; it caught him rather off guard. He was on the brink of orgasm when Sarah, in the midst of her climax shouted ‘I love you John!’ and he was so shocked by the declaration that he momentarily forgot what was going on until his body reminded him and he finished with an awkward kind of confused moan and collapsed onto the bed beside her. Laying in the darkness, post-coitus, and staring up at the ceiling, John’s mind flashed back unbidden to the day nearly four and a half months back when his friendship/room-share/partnership/whatever abruptly ended and specifically to the last words he’d yelled to said friend/flatmate/partner-in-solving-ridiculous-cases.

_‘maybe I'll think twice next time before I fall in love with a selfish ASS like you!’_

The words had tumbled out at the tail end of an angry tirade and it wasn’t until later that night when John was trying to get comfortable on Sarah’s couch that he’d even remembered he’d spoken them.

_‘fall in love.’_

He had left it at that, acknowledging that they had been said and moved on. Shut them away. After all he was never going to see Sherlock again so what was the point. He hadn’t meant them.

But shortly after his last meeting with Mycroft, the words had come back to him suddenly while watching some inane romantic comedy with Sarah.

_‘fall in love.’_

The words had echoed in his head, lighting up the forefront of his mind with big neon lights.

_I didn’t mean it._

_But you said it._

_I was angry._

_You still said it._

_So what? People say things they don’t mean all the time._

_You don’t._

It was true. John had never been one to speak without thinking. He liked to be sure of something before he gave voice to it, knowing the power and meaning words held. Still–

_Why else would you have been hurt so badly by what he did?_

The effect of the revelation had been enough to necessitate a visit to the toilet for some privacy. After a good, cold splash of water on his face, John had stared at his dripping, gasping refection in the mirror. He was in love with Sherlock. _Sherlock!_ A man with the emotional range of a teaspoon! A man whose closest friend before John was a skull! A man period! (It wasn’t that he had a problem homosexuality as a whole, he had just never had the interest).

He looked into the mirror and his own face had stared back wearing a shocked expression. Then he gradually calmed himself down, taking deep breaths until his face was mostly dry and Sarah was probably wondering what exactly he was doing in here.

He stared at himself. 

The wound Sherlock had dealt him was still raw and even thinking about it now was upsetting him. He rubbed his hands down his face stopping near his mouth and pulling gently at the skin on his cheeks. Sherlock was an amazing person. A proper genius if ever there was one and he did brilliantly following a line of logic. Deducing and reasoning until he reached the concealed pearl of truth. But love was not reasonable or logical and Sherlock had already proven himself inept at dealing with strong emotions.

John knew, superficially that Sherlock had behaved out of fear and self-preservation that day but it did not excuse the way in which he had spoken to John, nor could John let go of the pain it had caused. He had shut that door. He had cut those ties. He could cut these ones too.

Now lying there beside Sarah, a woman he very much liked and had been sharing a bed with for four months now, John gasped as his heartbeat started to slow and he said into darkness,

“I love you.”

 

The rush of adrenalin fuelled him onwards as his mind recalculated and came up with an alternate route through the labyrinthine back streets of London. Down the ally, up the fire escape, through a family’s flat as they were sitting down to dinner (Mother, father, five year old son, Mother: no sign of makeup, face hasn’t been washed in a least a day – stay at home mum. Father: left bum – computer programmer. Child: boy, two and a half, possibly dyslexic if that drawing on the fridge was anything to go by.), and out the building door just as the murderer came round the corner.

Sherlock took him out with one, swift upper cut.

Later, after Lestrade had finished taking his statement and the adrenalin had begun to wear off, Sherlock walked back to Baker Street, easily avoiding the ever-present black car, and tried to ignore the now familiar yawning emptiness he could feel creeping back in.


	5. Chapter 5

I struggled a bit with this one but I’m pleased with the end result. Let me know how you liked the pacing in comments. Enjoy! 

The air was brisk and a strong gust of wind sent a chill through John as he opened the door and stepped out into it, wishing he were wearing a heavier jacket. His phone chimed as he was fishing his keys out of his pocket and he brought up the text as he locked up.

_Phil’s called in sick. Have to cover for him. Don’t wait up love. – Sarah_

John sighed. It was another in a long string of unplanned interruptions that had prevented him seeing his fiancée for more that a few hours in the past three days. 

He’d proposed only a week ago, after Sarah had dropped several hints. They had gone out to dinner and then taken a stroll along the river. There in the moonlight John had gotten down on one knee (rather awkwardly considering his bad leg). Sarah had said yes and cried and they had kissed and then, on the way back to the street to hail a cab, John had thought he saw a long black coat disappearing around the corner and tried to ignore the painful lurch he felt in his stomach.

He crossed the street now slowly, holding up a hand in a gesture of gratitude to the cabbie who stopped to let him pass. 

Life was dull. 

It had been a welcome relief at first, to know that he would never again be roused at an ungodly hour and forced to chase some criminal or other all over London. Especially after that last bit of excitement at the swimming pool, a nice, relaxing, boring routine was just what he needed. But lately, John had begun to feel antsy; getting distracted by news of murders on the telly and feeling his heart rate pick up whenever he heard police sirens in the distance. 

Six weeks ago a position in a local surgery had opened up and John had taken it. A steady job, 9-5, a family doctor. Settling down, getting married. This was his life. He told himself he liked it. He told himself it was sensible and safe. But since when did he do the sensible ore safe thing. Joining the army. That couldn’t be considered sensible or safe. Moving in with Sherlo-

John stopped himself and shook his head. That part of his life was done. Over.

He turned a corner onto an empty street.

Limping down the sidewalk, he made it six steps before four guys hiding in an alley were on him.

Using his highly trained instincts John was able to take the first one down with an elbow to the eye while the second got a taste of Johns legendary left hook in the nose. But the third guy, who had managed to get around the back of John, delivered a well-placed punch to the kidneys and, pain radiating from the small of his back, his bad leg gave out and sent him crashing to the hard concrete. 

A foot in the solar plexus was a gift from the fourth guy and as John lay on the ground, winded, he felt the sharp prick of a needle in his neck and then nothing.

 

…

 

Moaning at the pounding headache he woke up to, John opened his eyes to darkness. The effects of whatever drug had been given to him had not quite worn off and his mind was slow to collect its thoughts as he tried to remember what had happened. But his memory was fuzzy and indistinct and thinking made his head hurt more so instead he moved his focus to the present and tried to figure out where the hell he was. It was too dark for him to see anything although he could hear breathing coming from somewhere. He could also feel that he was sitting in some kind of chair and that his hands were tied together around the back of it in a distinctly uncomfortable fashion. Suddenly his world was filled with light, forcing his eyes shut against the pain and halting his stumbling thought process momentarily.

“It’s nice to see you again John.” A familiar, pleasant, psychotic, Irish voice said, “Really, it’s been too long.”

John blinked rapidly, trying to adjust his eyes to the sudden light and slowly he was able to make out a figure standing over him. The figure of James Moriarty.

“Yeah well,” John replied, his voice rasping through his dry throat, he stopped to clear it, “I think I could have done without this reunion thanks.”

Moriarty shook his head and tutted, admonishing John the way a mother might admonish an insolent son.

“Now, now John, that’s no way to greet an old friend is it?” he stepped forward and crouched down to he was eye level with the doctor, “I do hope you think of me as a friend John. After all we’ve been through together.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the pain in his head would abate soon and wishing his mind was sharper. He sighed.

“What do you want Moriarty?”

John opened his eyes to find Moriarty’s empty black ones staring right back at him. Moriarty seemed to consider this as he stared at John before standing and striding away. John took the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings. He couldn’t see much beyond the island of light he sat in. The floor was concrete and their voices echoed giving John the sense they were in some kind of abandoned warehouse. Once again, Jim interrupted John’s thoughts.

“Does a man really need a reason to want to see and old friend?” 

Moriarty was now standing outside the circle of light and his disembodied voice echoed around John, reminding him strongly of their last meeting.

“He does if he goes to the trouble of kidnapping him.”

Moriarty laughed and a chill ran up John’s spine.

“Quite right John. You know you really are quite intelligent, I can see why he liked you.”

John’s stomach lurched at the unspoken name hanging between them and his voice shook as he said, “What do you want with me?”

Moriarty laughed again and John followed the sound of his footsteps around the room. Keeping track of the psychopath, though he was powerless to do anything about it.

“Oh, I was getting bored.”

He was now behind him and John stiffened as he approached and rested a hand on his bad shoulder.

“You know how it is.”

John kept quite and concentrated on keeping his breathing steady.

“Our dear friend Sherlock refused to play the nice little game I’d set out for him.” Moriarty had crouched down and was now whispering into John’s ear, “Made me rather cross I can tell you.”

John laughed humorlessly.

“If you brought me here as some kind of ultimatum to Sherlock I’m afraid you’re going to be rather disappointed. He doesn’t care about me.” he struggled not to add ‘anymore’ to the end of his sentence.

Moriarty pouted and stood, facing away from John.

“That’s a shame.” He said in a mockery of disappointment, “And here I went to all the trouble of bringing you here. Although.” He turned and there was a peculiar glint in the man’s eyes though John just supposed that was the insanity shining through, “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

John didn’t bother answering the question and Moriarty shrugged.

“Oh well, I’m sure I can find some other way to have fun with the two of you.”

At his words the room was lit up and John found himself staring at the bruised and bloody figure of a man lying about four yards in front of him on the cold, hard ground; the tattered remains of a suit clinging to his skeletal frame. His hands were handcuffed together as were his feet, all four of the limbs raw from where he’d pulled at his restrains.

John gasped in shock and fear.

“Sherlock!”

Oh My! The next chapter will be from Sherlock’s POV. I’m rather pleased with how Moriarty turned out.


	6. Chapter 6

_Six months earlier…_

The days and weeks and months blurred together into one monotonous routine as Sherlock moved mechanically from one moment to the next. Cases were no longer discriminated against for being too ‘boring’ or ‘obvious’ because anything was better than the all-consuming emptiness he now felt when his brain was unoccupied.

Mycroft had stopped by almost immediately and had said words that were probably meant to admonish but that Sherlock hadn’t reacted to and had promptly erased once his brother had gone.

Certain phrases came back to him at odd times though, things like ‘let someone in for once’ and ‘stop ignoring what any idiot off the street could see plain as day’. Sherlock did not know weather they were memories seeping through or creations of his own disobedient mind, only that they always seemed to be spoken in Mycroft’s disdainful tones.

…

The first time he had shown up at a crime scene alone, Sally had asked him where John was.

“He’s gone.” Sherlock said in his best cold and uncaring voice, determined not to let the loss show through.

Sally had scoffed.

“Had enough of living with a freak did he? Well, good for him.”

Her words meant nothing he told himself, or tried to at least, but they cut into him just the same, a twisting pain in his gut and, for once, he was left without a cleaver retort. A fact Sally picked up on quickly enough.

“What nothing to say to that?” triumph coloured her words and she laughed disbelievingly, “Am I to understand I have rendered the great Sherlock Holmes speechless?”

Sherlock strode past her to the scene of the crime, tuning out the gleeful laughter that followed him.

Lestrade, barking an order for professionalism, took one look at Sherlock and said, “John called. Told me you two wouldn’t be working together anymore. Wished me all the best, as though I wouldn’t be seeing him again.”

The unspoken question hung in the air between them. Sherlock let his silence answer for him.

Lestrade sighed.

“I don’t know what happened. And it’s none of my business. But John is a good man. He will come back if you apologize.”

Sherlock had rolled his eyes and rattled off his list of deductions, wrapping up the case with speed and proficiency. No theatrics, no derisive jabs at the police force’s collective incompetence. Just stone cold professionalism.

Sherlock had then gone home and broken every glass beaker and Petri dish he owned.

John would not come back. John would never come back. And he was better off without Sherlock anyway. After all, he thought later on, staring at his cold, empty, reflection in the bathroom mirror, it wasn’t as though he deserved anyone as wonderful as John in his life. 

Staring for a few more seconds at his reflection, Sherlock broke that too.

…

The gunshot echoed loudly in the empty flat. Well, empty but for Sherlock that is. Leaning against the mantelpiece, back to the mirror, the gun warm in his hand, Sherlock surveyed his handiwork. The opposite wall was now littered with holes. The wall would have to be replastered and repapered. Sherlock did not care. 

In the wake of the shot, the silence was deafening, oppressive.

He stared down at the cooling pistol held loosely in his hand. London was experiencing an unprecidented, crime free few weeks and Mrs. Hudson’s wall was paying the price.

After the first week, Sherlock was finally allowed to leave the hospital, having been forced – under pain of never again being allowed to consult on any case – to recuperate after starving himself for five days and collapsing during the arrest. After the second week, Sherlock laying on the ground in the living room with his feet up on the sofa had discovered after fifteen minutes that he had been having a continuous double-sided conversation with the skull, himself providing both sides of the chat. Now, after twenty-two days of tedium, Sherlock felt as though he were on the verge of madness.

He stared at the gun and remembered.

_“The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, that's a crack shot. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service, and...”_

_Catching sight of John._

_“nerves of steel...”_

_Average, boring John Watson. John Watson who had intrigued him so much from the first moment he had entered the lab at Barts. John Watson who accepted him, praised him for his deductions. Who hadn’t scoffed or ridiculed or run away._

_No. It couldn’t be. Not ordinary John Watson._

_But he was a fighter. A soldier._

_Could it be that after only knowing him for about thirty hours, he had killed a man for Sherlock?_

_“Sergeant Donovan has... just been explaining everything. The two pills? ... Dreadful business, isn't it? Dreadful.”_

He stared at the gun in his grip as he remembered the moment John had become not only his flatmate, but also his friend. And now he was gone. Lost through Sherlock’s own stupidity. He brought his free hand to his chest feeling the relentless beating and the painful emptiness that had taken root there over six months ago. Bringing the gun closer to his gaze, Sherlock stared at it in contemplation and then turned it, experiencing the sensation of the cool metal against his throat at his jugular, tilted upwards. The bullet would sever the artery first before ripping through the midbrain and finally the occipital lobe. Blood loss would kill him if he managed to survive the brain damage. He could feel the weapon shaking against his skin and imagined the voices of every person who had ever mocked and scorned him egging him on, daring him to finish the job. Closing his eyes, he thought he heard his own voice in the cacophony. Pulling the gun away, switching the safety on and dropping it to the floor with a bang in one motion, Sherlock fled the empty flat.

…

The cool evening air felt pleasant on his face as he inhaled deeply, his nerves finally calming down as he trod the sidewalk towards the river. The moon was full and the sky was clear. Sherlock closed his eyes and walked the streets he knew by heart, easily sidestepping the odd pedestrian and deducing things about them based on their gait and choice of footwear. 

Then, as he neared the water, he opened his eyes and saw, lit by the glow of the moon and the streetlights, John Watson, his John Watson, down on one knee facing an ecstatic looking Sarah.

All sound cut out as he stared at the spectacle. Sarah crying and nodding, John grinning happily and standing with some difficulty, the two kissing, the ring glinting in the light.

Sherlock ran. He ran from the life he no longer had any part of.

He ran and for once did not know where he was going, only where he was coming from.

He tripped and fell, scraping his hands raw on the rough concrete, tearing the knees of his trousers. 

Breathing heavily, he sobbed. Bloody hands came up to cradle his face and discovered, to their astonishment, tears on his cheeks. He had not cried since he was four years old. In fact he had always been certain he lacked the ability to cry. But then he had also been certain he had lacked the ability to love and look how that turned out. Breathing hard he tried desperately to stem the flow of tears, slamming his fists into the ground, screaming in rage at the empty air, but as hard as he tried they would not abate. So he knelt in the dark, in a deserted corner of London, and wept.

…

Sherlock found him in his usual haunt. His eyes took in the tattered and dirty clothing of the usually immaculately dressed consulting detective and said, “Rough night was it Sherlock?”

Sherlock stared in derision at his ex-drug dealer and raised an eyebrow.

“That’s none of your concern Darren. Surely you recall how I operate? I’m here to buy from you. Not discuss my personal life.”

Darren laughed leaning back against the bench on which he sat and ran a pink tongue over his top row of teath, letting out a bark of laughter.

“Funny.” He said brightly, “’cause last time I saw you, you told me in no uncertain terms that you were done. Finished. And that you’d never be buyin’ from me again.”

Sherlock huffed out a sigh meant to hide his humiliation at having his own words thrown back at him but which only managed to accentuate it and looked down an away from the now smiling man on the bench. Darren laughed again and pulled a small bag of white powder out of the pocket of his jeans.

“Usual then? This for old-times-sake or have you well and truly fallen off the wagon?”

Sherlock shook his head and looked at the man.

“Not that.”

Darren frowned and pocketed the powder.

Sherlock felt the pain spreading.

“I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel.”

Darren gave Sherlock a calculated look and nodded his head.

“I can do that.” He said, producing another bag, Sherlock grabbed for it but he held it away, holding out his other hand in an expectant gesture.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and slapped several bills into the waiting palm. The drug dealer smiled and handed over the bag, stuffing the money into his pocket without bother to count it. He knew Sherlock well enough.

Sherlock turned to go, but Darren’s voice stopped him.

“Are you sure about this Holmes?”

Sherlock turned back and gave the man an amused glance. He sighed.

“Look, I know what I am alright? And I happen to believe that a man has the right to do what he likes to his own body. But I’ve also seen the consequences. And I happen like you, Sherlock. So I say again. Are you sure?”

Sherlock stared at him, his eyes blank and empty.

“I know what I’m doing.”

Darren nodded.

“Do ya need anythin’ else? Needles? Instructions?”

Sherlock shook his head. And walked away.

…

A rush. His heart began to pick up speed until it felt as though it might burst from his chest. He felt warm, flushed. And then he let out a long breath as his heart rate slowed and every muscle in his body relaxed and he collapsed to a boneless heap on the floor. He felt as though he were floating in weightless space as every ounce of tension seeped out of him and into the floor to be carried away from this place of peace. He smiled slowly as his mind wound down like a record slowly grounding to a halt. All the worries, all the pain he had been experiencing over the loss of that doctor just melted away and Sherlock found himself wondering why he had allowed himself to get so worked up in the first place. So what if John was gone. So what if he had lost the only person he had ever really cared about. That did not matter now. The only thing that mattered was here, coating the inside of the needle resting on the edge of the table and rushing through his bloodstream, warming him. Cradling him. Loving him.

His eyelids drooped and Sherlock felt himself slip in and out of consciousness. The sky through the window seemed to jump from shade to shade as dawn approached, the glowing numbers of the microwave clock leaping forwards as he drifted in a haze of bliss.

It was five am now. Morning. 

There was something he needed. 

Sherlock frowned. What did he need? It was important. It flickered in the back of his mind, elusive as it flitted through the recesses of his brain like a sprite. He tried coming at it from a different angle. Working his way there through a logical approach. Something to do with morning. He glanced at the clock again. 5:06. Morning. Something important about morning. He thought or at least tried to but his thoughts seemed at once as solid as rock and as insubstantial as water as he approached them. Giggling at his incompetence with something as simple as thinking, Sherlock momentarily lost his admittedly tenuous grasp on this conscious line of reasoning and his thoughts drifted away like dandelion seeds in the wind. Morning. Light. Sunrises. Green pastures. Cows. Milk. Breakfast. John. Te-

TEA!

That was it Tea. Tea was important in the morning. Tea was what people drank when they woke.

John liked tea.

Springing to his feel and immediately clutching the chair for support as the blood rushed out of his head, Sherlock staggered over to the cupboard and pulled out the tea tin.

It was empty.

The sense of loss that suddenly came over him seemed strangely disproportionate as he frowned into the empty abyss.

Why was it empty? He had not had any tea in six months and the day Jo-…he left he had brought home three bags of food not one of which contained tea. So where had it gone?

Oh.

The memory came back to him suddenly. The morning after. Disposing of anything reminding him of John. 

Sarah had come by to pick up John’s things and had given Sherlock a fierce and ugly rundown of his character (or rather lack thereof), which Sherlock had of course ignored. And later in a fit of unaccustomed sentimentality had thrown out the union Jack pillow and the chair it sat on, all the food John had bought and left on the table, and finally, the tea.

Holding the empty tin now, Sherlock laughed at his past self’s idiocy. It was just tea. Dried leaves to be boiled in water. It didn’t mean anything.

As he held the tin closer however, a whiff of black tea and bergamot caught his senses and a cold, sharp pain lashed through his numb body.

The flat was starting to feel close and constricting. He labored for breath in the confined space and stormed, stumbling, down the stairs and out into the early morning air.

Later, he would wonder if Moriarty had been following him and he had been too distraught to notice or if the madman had simply gotten very lucky that Sherlock was too stoned to avoid the kidnapping that occurred in the next second.


	7. Chapter 7

Voices invaded his peacefully unconscious mind and brought with them the pain from all the injuries he had managed, at least for a while, to forget he had. Now they were rushing back in with renewed fervor bringing the memories of the past few days along with them.

 

_His body ached. He moaned and rolled onto his side, his cheek brushing hard concrete, and curled his shaking body into a fetal position, trying to quell the nausea he felt growing in his stomach. Footsteps echoed loudly in the dimness and grew louder as they moved towards him. Lights came on and he moaned again, turning his head away to protect his eyes from the stinging light._

_“Wakey wakey.” Moriarty said in his singsong Irish lilt. Sherlock watched as his polished black shoes moved closer until they stopped in front of him and the consulting criminal crouched down._

_Sherlock whimpered and clenched his fists as what felt like every muscle in his body seized up in pain._

_“What did you do to me?” He asked quietly through clenched teeth._

_Moriarty laughed and reached out a hand, stroking it through Sherlock’s thick curls. Sherlock resisted the urge to vomit._

_“Oh this isn’t my doing dear. Heroin withdrawal is a nasty business and I suspect you won’t be feeling much like yourself for the next few days, although considering this was your first time the symptoms shouldn’t be too severe.”_

_Moriarty continued to run his hands through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock shook his head, wanting desperately to get away from the man but unable to find the strength to move. He was completely helpless._

_“What do you want with me?” he whispered, too tired and angry with himself to expend any more energy._

_Moriarty stood and moved away, hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored suit._

_“I wanted have a little chat with you. I’ve been watching you and quite frankly I’m disappointed with your work over the past few months. It used to be a pleasure, watching you solve one of my crimes, but lately it’s become…dull. Boring.” He sang out the last word, “I mean, it’s almost as if you just don’t…care anymore. And that makes me sad.” He stopped and turned back, a hand over his heart, a hurt look on his face, “It really does. So since you’re not going to play the game anymore, I’m just going to have to find another way to have fun with you.”_

_From his recumbent position on the cold, hard floor, Sherlock watched Moriarty stroll away across the large warehouse room to the door at the other side._

_“Ta-ta!”_

_The next time he woke, he felt a little better. But not for long as Jim emerged from the shadows with all the joviality of a great white shark._

_He smiled, a menacing glint in his empty black eyes._

_“Time for some fun.”_

_Two huge men moved forward and picked Sherlock up under the arms, dragging his still worn out body to the wall where steel manacles hung, ready for him._

_Strung up against the wall, feet barely brushing the floor, James Moriarty stepped forward brandishing a scalpel and began his ‘fun’._

_Sherlock was proud of the fact that during that first session he did not scream. A few pained moans and maybe some whimpers escaped his mouth but he refused to give the psychopath the pleasure of hearing him beg for the pain to stop._

_Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for the three times afterward the last of which ended with him losing his voice completely and whimpering pathetically as Moriarty continued to shock him with a car battery._

_As the last vestiges of electricity left his shaking and exhausted body, Moriarty strode forward cocking his head to the side and perusing Sherlock’s abused, broken body._

_“It’s been a few days now, so I thought maybe we should have a little chat you and I.”_

_He held up a glass of water and brought it to Sherlock’s chapped lips. Sherlock considered spitting in Moriarty’s face, but he was so devastatingly thirsty that he couldn’t help but gulp down the pitiful amount his captor allowed him. Licking the last drops of water from his lips he fixed Moriarty with a tired, broken stare._

_It took him several tries to get his voice to work._

_“What…do you want to…to chat…a…about?”_

_The criminal strode back to the small table, setting the water down and picking up a plate of strawberries, striding back leisurely and coming to a stop about a foot and a half away from his victim._

_“To tell you the truth.” He said, picking up the biggest, reddest berry of the bunch and biting into it, making a big show of how much he was enjoying its sweetness, “I’m getting a little bored.”_

 

The burns on his skin stung and the ribs that were broken sent sharp lances of pain through his body every time he so much as breathed.

Something was bothering him though. Something besides the pain. He tried his best to push it out of his mind, to store it away where it would be only a minor inconvenience. Considering how adept he was at doing this normally he still managed to fail miserably. Still, he did manage to get his mind to limping and as soon as he did, he realized what was bothering him. The other voice, the one that wasn’t Moriarty, was John.

His heart began to pound in his ears and his breathing picked up. John was here. Moriarty had brought John here. John was in trouble.

He opened his eyes and sure enough, there was John Watson sitting tied to a wooden chair and staring down James Moriarty with his best soldier expression on his face. Unbidden, an image of John smiling and happy with an equally happy Sarah under the moonlight flooded his mind and pulled at his heartstrings. Closing his eyes he tried in vain to erase it.

“What is this all for Moriarty?”

Moriarty laughed. A loud cackle that sent uncomfortable shivers down his spine.

“Honestly Johnny boy, I don’t have a reason. Truly. Right now, I’m just messing about, having a laugh.”

“You’re insane.”

Moriarty paused.

“Umm, yeah John.” His voice conveying his utter condescension at John’s obvious words, “I think we’ve already established that.”

At that moment a hot searing pain shot through his body and Sherlock couldn’t suppress the groan that escaped his throat.

“Ooooh.” Moriarty exclaimed, turning around and fixing Sherlock with his manic gaze, “Look who’s awake.”

“Sherlock.” John said from behind the consulting criminal, “Sherlock are you all right?”

“John?” Sherlock replied, his thoughts still wading through the murky depths of pain, “What are you doing here.”

“Well I didn’t just pop round for tea if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sherlock’s vision swam in and out and he felt himself on the verge of unconsciousness again when Moriarty’s voice cut through his stalled mind.

“Hey, you aren’t going to go back to sleep are you?” he asked, sending one polished shoe ramming into Sherlock’s already mistreated ribcage.

Sherlock groaned and curled in on himself, around his new injuries. Vaguely, he could hear John shouting abuse at their psychotic captor, the legs of his wooden chair grinding against the concrete as he struggled against his bonds.

“Good, you are awake.” Jim said, hands in pockets. “I believe you know our guest.” He said, gesturing to John. “I was rather disappointed to hear of your little falling out so I thought I’d set up a reunion of sorts. Just see what happens.”

Silence followed this statement as both Sherlock and John came to the realization that there was nothing they could say or do to get out of this. Moriarty wasn’t seeking information; he didn’t have a specific goal in mind. He simply wanted to hurt them and witness the consequences. 

As the accumulation of the last five days caught up to him, Sherlock felt the starvation and dehydration and exhaustion and pain overwhelm him.

“Just let him go.” He said in a quiet, broken voice. Moriarty started and turned around, eyebrows raised in a genuine expression of surprise. From his seated position, John stopped his struggling and stared wide eyed at the shattered shell of the man he remembered, begging not for his own life, but Johns. “Keep me here. Do what ever you want to me but please, _please,_ ” He stared up at his captor shedding the last of his dignity and pride in what deep down, he knew was a vain attempt at begging but maybe, _just maybe_ he thought, it would pander to Moriarty’s giant ego, “just let him go.”

The open room was silent as both captives watched, as Moriarty seemed to genuinely consider Sherlock’s last-ditch attempt at saving at least one of their lives.

“Hmmm.” He said, brows furrowed, hands pushed deep into pockets, “Ummmm…no.”

With that he drew out his semi-automatic from…somewhere and shot John Watson square in the chest.

A heart-wrenching roar of anguish tore its way out of Sherlock’s throat as his world dissolved into a rushing mass of blinding red rage.


	8. Chapter 8

Even wearing a Kevlar vest, getting shot in the sternum by a semi-automatic pistol from five feet away was no picnic.

John had noticed the vest under his button down shirt upon waking and so had some idea what Moriarty had planned but even with his extensive combat training, it still felt as though he had been hit in the chest by a full speed train.

The force of the shot slammed into him, sending him flying backwards still tied to the chair. The pain in his chest was enough to distract him from the impending pain of his skull meeting the hard concrete floor until it happened and new nausea-inducing pain blossomed in the back of his head, effectively distracting him from the throbbing in his chest. Then everything was hazy and uncertain for an undeterminable amount of time, but through the haze and confusion, John could make out a heart wrenching, rage-filled howl that seemed at once, imminently close and exceedingly far away, and the unmistakable sound of a gunshot once again rang through the empty space. Then there was more haze and more pain and then just black.

When he came to his head was throbbing, he was having trouble breathing and he could hear pitiful sobbing coming from somewhere close by. As soon as his brain caught up with what his ears were hearing, he was up, the fall having broken the chair beneath him and freed him of his bonds. Stumbling from the sudden head rush he experienced, coupled with the fairly serious concussion he assumed he had sustained from his fall, John took a moment to close his eyes and get his thoughts in order. Opening them again, the first thing he saw was Moriarty's corpse lying in a pool of crimson blood, a surprised look frozen on his pale face. Walking slowly up to the body, John tried to take it in.

He was dead.

James Moriarty was no more.

Staring coldly down at the dead body, John couldn't muster up a single remorseful feeling. He gave the body a sharp kick. A flash of contentment. Well…as least that was something. The weeping broke through his thoughts and he turned his slightly blurred gaze to the emaciated figure curled into a fetal ball, sobbing on the cold, hard floor.

"Sherlock!"

John ran to the man, stumbling and finally falling to his knees beside the inconsolable form of his…emotions fought for precedence in his mind: pity, anger, betrayal, forgiveness. Was he still mad at this man? This beautiful, frustrating, emotionally crippled man?

Sherlock continued to weep loudly and John's heart couldn't help but break for the man.

As gently as he could, he laid a hand on Sherlock's shuddering shoulder.

"Sherlock?" he said quietly, gently rubbing circles over the man's arm and back, "Sherlock."

Sherlock sniffed and turned his head toward John, eyes glassy and unfocused, clearly suffering from the days of starvation and torture the now dead psychopath had put him through this past week. John felt another swell of justice and wished for a second that Sherlock hadn't killed him so John could shoot him in the face.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said in a broken voice, bringing John's attention back to the matter at hand, "I'm sorry John. I didn't… I couldn't stop him. I just–" his voice choked on a sob and his face screwed up in agony.

"Shhhh." John continued to rub Sherlock's arm with his left hand as he brought his right around to cup the stubble-covered cheek, "Sherlock, It's alright. I'm fine. Look at me I'm fine. He didn't kill me."

Sherlock shook his head, tears spilling from his eyes and onto John's hand.

"No…I saw it. He k-killed you. And I couldn't stop him. I'm so sorry, I couldn't stop…"

"Sherlock!" John cupped the man's face with both hands and spoke in the most commanding, soldier voice he could muster, "Look at me!"

Shocked, Sherlock stopped crying immediately and widened his eyes at John. John pulled open his shirt, revealing the vest and the bullet that had implanted itself on it, right above his heart.

"I'm okay. I'm alive. Moriarty was just playing with you." John glanced at the body lying several yards away and let out a short bark of laughter, "I don't think he was planning on such a strong reaction." He glanced back at the man on the ground and found himself lost inside the startling grayish-green eyes that stared back at him in wonder.

"John?" Sherlock asked breathlessly, almost afraid to say the name out loud in case it all turned out to be some kind of dream.

John smiled and stroked his face, tears of his own escaping as he looked down on the man he could no longer deny he loved.

"Yeah." He said with a sob, wiping away the tears that were drying on Sherlock's thin, dirty face, "Hello."

Sherlock touched the hand that caressed his face, clearly not believing that John was actually sitting in front of him. Moving his hand up the checkered shirt-covered arm, Sherlock reached John's chest and ran his hand along it until he came to the bullet-proof vest, long fingers skimming the rough Kevlar until it came to rest on the flattened metal of the bullet. It came away in his hand and Sherlock brought it to his face to examine it. And then it was like a light had been turned on in his mind and it shone out of his eyes as he pulled John down into a bone-crushing hug, sobbing and clutching at him as though he never wanted to let go ever again. John held Sherlock's quivering form tightly in his arms, running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his back, whispering soothing words to the man whose face was buried deep into the crook of John's neck.

"Shhhh. It's okay. It's going to be alright." He said softly, daring to plant a light kiss on the tangled mass of curls that were pressed against his face, "Shhhh. I'm here. Everything's going be fine. You're safe now."

Finally, sniffing and shaking, with the occasional hitch in his breath, Sherlock went limp in John's arms, worn out from his outburst and break down.

Laying the exhausted man gently back down to the floor, John quickly pulled out his phone, gave a silent cheer for the two bars for signal he was getting, and hit speed dial seven.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade." Came the tired greeting. John let out a breathy laugh nearly crying at how close they were to freedom.

"Lestrade."

John almost laughed at the mental image his mind conjured up as he heard the DI jump in his seat and several muffled curses as what sounded like an entire folder of paper slid off his desk and onto the floor.

"Shit. John! John is that you!"

"Yeah," John answered, relief coursing through his body, taking the leftover adrenalin with it and leaving behind sudden, aching exhaustion.

"Is Sherlock with you?"

"Yes, he's here." John said, running a finger over the unconscious man's forehead, brushing a stray curl from his pale brow, "He's in pretty bad shape though. He's going to need medical attention."

"Right. And Moriarty?"

John glanced over at the corpse; pleasure flooded through him at the sight and he sighed, "Dead." He said succinctly, offering no further information. Lestrade didn't ask for more.

"Where are you?"

John blinked, frowning before realizing he did not have the answer to that question.

"John? John are you still there?"

"Yes." He said finally, shaking his head and blinking his eyes, trying to fight the sudden exhaustion that had begin to creep in, "I'm here and no, I don't know where we are. It looks like some kind of abandoned warehouse though."

"That's all right. I can track you on your phone. Just stay on the line yeah?"

"Right." John said, hitting the hands-free button and setting the phone down, turning his attention to Sherlock who was beginning to stir.

There was significant bruising on Sherlock's face and more could be seen peeking through the open neck of his once white, now grimy grey shirt. Carefully John begun unbuttoning the shirt so he could assess the damage done to his friend.

Friend. John's hands froze momentarily and he glanced back at the abused face. At the man who, at one point, had meant more than anything to John. Stroking lightly down his cheek, John couldn't help the feelings that welled up inside his chest. What was he now?

Shaking his head, John decided now was not the time to reevaluate his relationship with Sherlock. Now was the time to help him so, moving back to the shirt, John undid the last of the buttons and opened it.

Sherlock's wounds rivaled those John had seen in combat and John felt his heart break even more for the abuse suffered at the hands of that psychopath.

His chest was a patchwork of black and blue, purple and yellow. Blood seeped from a myriad of cuts John recognized as being caused by a scalpel. Running his fingers lightly over Sherlock's chest he sent a silent apology to the man before pressing down to check for any cracked or broken ribs.

The cry of pain Sherlock let out proved there was at least one but John didn't have time to check for more because with the cry, Sherlock was up on his hands and knees scrabbling away pitifully, collapsing when his strength gave out and curling in a ball some feet away.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, trying to calm the panicking man but was interrupted by Lestrade's voice coming over the phone

"John! John are you still there!"

Inwardly cursing at his stupidity and utter lack of tact, John grabbed the phone and moved slowly towards the whimpering figure.

"Yeah I'm here." He said, speaking softly and quietly so a not to startle Sherlock.

"We've traced your position and help is on the way. Is there anyone else there?"

John had reached Sherlock's trembling form and he knelt down beside him, reaching out slowly as though approaching an abused animal.

"I assume so, although I haven't seen anyone else. I suspect Moriarty gave them orders to leave him alone for awhile." John directed the last sentence to the dead body of their captor.

"Right. Well, just hang tight. We're on our way. Keep the line open."

"Roger that." John said, combat instincts taking over as he turned his attention back to Sherlock.

Sherlock was at that moment very close to passing out considering how violently he was hyperventilating.

Right. His brain said, slipping smoothly into army doctor mode, step one: calm Sherlock the fuck down.

John moved forward slowly, hands held out in a pacifying, unthreatening gesture.

"Sherlock. It's John. I'm sorry; I was just checking you for injuries. I wasn't trying to hurt you."

By this time, Sherlock had managed to back himself up against one of the walls of their prison and was cowering against it, his thin body quaking.

He flinched as John reached him, his body tensing where John's hand touched his shoulder. What scared John the most was that Sherlock didn't try to escape. He just sat there, trembling, as though resigned to whatever fate awaited him.

John stroked the shoulder tenderly, determined not to hurt Sherlock that way again.

Gradually, Sherlock's shaking died down and he turned his fear filled eyes from the cage his hands had formed around his face and looked up at John.

"John?" He said in a soft voice.

John smiled and cupped his face.

"I'm here." He replied, wiping away the tear tracks that left dirty streaks all down Sherlock's grimy face, "You're safe."

Sherlock sniffed and screwed up his eyes, fresh tears escaping them as he turned to bury his face in his hands once again.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He choked out between sobs.

John frowned stroking his hand through the thick mane of curls, trying to impart some comfort on the distressed man.

"Why are you sorry?" he asked in the most soothing voice he could muster, "you have nothing to be sorry for."

Sherlock sniffed and though muffled, John heard the reply.

"Yes I do." He swallowed and turned his stricken face toward John's, "I'm s-sorry for what I said to you. For how I…behaved. How I treated you that day." His face screwed up at a fresh wave of tears threatened to overwhelm him, "I was horrible. I deserve everything I got." He said the last part softly, his gaze resting on Moriarty's dead body, his eyes opened wide, unblinking. "I was willing to accept it. As my punishment." John wanted to interrupt but Sherlock seemed so deeply captivated, He had trouble finding his voice. "I thought he would eventually get bored and just kill me," and almost gleeful expression had found its way onto his face now, a ghost of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth just a smidge, "I thought it would finally be over. All the pain and…misery. Gone." His brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth pulling into a frown, "But then you were here. He was hurting you. A-and I couldn't let him. And then you were…you were…" his voice seemed to seize up and John watched in morbid fascination as Sherlock seemed to relive the moment in his mind, "he k-killed you. And I just…I–"

John's body finally caught up with his brain and he pulled Sherlock into a tight hug, wishing he could just reach into the man's head and pull out all the bad memories.

"It's okay. Sherlock. I forgive you. It wasn't all your fault. I could have done something. If nothing else you were at least honest from the start about who you are and what you're like. I should have been more responsible. I knew you weren't being sincere that day in the flat and I just–I should have forgiven you. I wanted to. But–" John wasn't sure where his mouth was taking him but luckily Sherlock saved him having to find his way out of the verbal hole he'd dug for himself by silencing him with a kiss.

It was wonderful. And it certainly put a stop to his rambling. In fact it put a stop to everything momentarily, even his ability to breath as every fibre of his being converged on the fact that Sherlock was kissing him. Sherlock was kissing him. Sherlock was kissing him!

When they finally broke apart, John stared dazedly down at him while Sherlock stared uncertainly up at John from his slumped position against the wall.

"Was that alright?" he asked timidly.

John blinked a few times and swallowed, revelling in the fact that he could still taste Sherlock on his lips and struggled to get his mind back up and running.

"Uhhh…ummm…yeah." He finally managed, smiling at the relieved expression that broke on Sherlock's battered face, "In fact I've wanted to do…that…since the moment I saw you jump for joy that first day in the flat when Lestrade told you about the note."

Sherlock frowned.

"Really. That was the moment?"

John blushed. "Well, I started to think about it after you winked at me," now it was Sherlock's turn to blush beneath the bruises, "But that was when I was sure of it. I almost did, when you asked me to come with you to the crime scene."

Sherlock let out a breath of laughter, remembering how close they'd been standing. Oh god yes. John's words seemed to take on a whole new meaning looking back on them now.

"Why then?"

John frowned, "I don't know…I guess up until then you'd been all cold and…reserved. Then suddenly you were jumping up and down like a child on Christmas morning. You were almost…cute." John smiled, "You were suddenly human. I didn't even know you but…you showed me a part of yourself most people never got to see. It made me feel…special. Worthwhile for the first time in a…long time."

They both stared at each other, Sherlock brought his hand up to trace down John's cheek.

"What are you going to do now?" he asked softly, uncertainty colouring his words.

John frowned, unsure of what he was getting at.

"Sarah." Sherlock clarified, "you're engaged."

John's eyebrows shot up. What with everything that had happened, his fiancée had slipped right out of his mind.

"Right." He said with a laugh, "Well, I guess…hang on." He added, with a frown, "How do you know I'm engaged?"

Sherlock said nothing. He didn't have to. John already knew.

"The coat." He said, remembering the tail end of a long, dark coat disappearing around a corner, "That was you."

Sherlock ducked his head and cleared his throat in uncharacteristic embarrassment.

"I wasn't following you." he said quickly, eager for John to believe him, "I was just…out and I turned a corner and there you were. On one knee." he sighed, "it was the first time I'd seen you since– and well, there you were. You looked so…happy. So I left. And I was so upset I went and got myself kidnapped."

John blinked, startled.

"Well, I may have gotten out of my mind on heroin first."

John opened his mouth and then shook his head and closed it again. That was a discussion for another time.

Instead he said, "I guess Sarah will just have to understand."

Sherlock looked up with hope filling his eyes.

"Really. You really forgive me."

John smiled and nodded pulling Sherlock into a tight hug.

Pulling back, Sherlock rested his forehead against John's closing his eyes as exhaustion swept over him.

"I'm so sorry John." He whispered, "for being such an idiot."

John laughed pulling back and cupping Sherlock's face. Huge grey-green eyes stared back at him.

"You are an idiot." He said fondly, brushing away the hair that fell into Sherlock's eyes, "But you're my idiot."


	9. Chapter 9

After James Moriarty, Sebastian Moran turned out to be a rather disappointing foe. A mere four months after John and Sherlock's kidnapping and Moriarty's death, during which time Moran had taken over Moriarty's criminal exploits, they found themselves in a face off in a back alley of London, Sherlock with his pistol pointed at the criminal, Moran with his pistol held to John's head whom he had clutched in the crux of his elbow.

"Shoot Sherlock!" John managed to yell before Moran began strangling him, "Just do it! Shoot him!"

But Sherlock hesitated.

Just like he had ten months ago when Moriarty was clutched in John's grasp and John was yelling for him to leave. To get out and save himself.

Sherlock hesitated then too. Only now, he understood why. And he accepted it.

John had not left Sherlock's side since the morning he'd woken up when, after impatiently sitting through an explanation of his injuries, he insisted loudly and repeatedly that he be taken to the detective's room.

The doctor put up quite a fight citing reasons like 'hospital policy' and 'legal accountability' but John (who had years in the army and experience with Sherlock under his belt) held his ground firmly until the doctor begrudgingly gave in (although John suspected it was less to do with his arguing skills and more to do with the fact that Mycroft was standing outside his door when he was being taken to Sherlock's room.)

One thing John had not been looking forward to was the inevitable conversation he would have to have with Sarah. Sarah. Sweet Sarah who was innocent in all of this.

His worrying however turned out to be unnecessary since, when Sarah showed up at the door to what was effectively Sherlock and John's room and she took one look at John and the hand he was stroking tenderly, she sighed and nodded in resigned acceptance. John followed her out into the hallway and opened his mouth to explain and apologize but before any words could escape, she silenced him with two fingers to his lips, shaking her head as she did so.

"Don't say anything John." She said with sad eyes, "You'll only make it worse."

John sighed and nodded. Sarah slipped the diamond ring off her finger and placed it tenderly in the palm of his hand, closing his fingers around it with her own.

"You are a wonderful man and you deserve to be with the one you truly love. And that's just not me."

She turned than and started to walk away down the stark, clinical hallway before turning back, her eyes hard and her voice several degrees colder.

"I'll have your things sent to you. Don't call me."

She had managed to make John feel like the lowest form of life ever to slither through the mud of the earth without ever raising her voice.

A week later John sent her flowers in an attempt at a peacemaking gesture. They showed up the next day torn into a mangled heap of mulch and he never saw his favorite jumper again.

When Sherlock woke up two days later, John was the first thing he saw. John's eyes, John's face, John's lips and he smiled. The action was so new, his muscles so unaccustomed to the feeling that he tried to frown but found to his utter astonishment that he could not stop smiling. The resulting expression of mixed emotions sent John into such a fit of giggling that he fell off his char and had tears streaming down his face by the time he stopped. For good measure, Sherlock sat in his bed and sulked around his seemingly permanent grin until John calmed down and sat back in his chair, running his hands through Sherlock's mussed up hair and staring into his endless grey eyes. Colour rose in the detective's pale face and he averted his gaze, staring down at long-fingered hands resting on top of hospital linen and he tried in vain to stop the tears from falling. In a small voice that was so unlike his usual self-assured tones he practically whispered, "I am so sorry."

John sighed and moved to sit on the bed, shoving Sherlock over good-naturedly and gathering him into his arms, burying his face into Sherlock's mane of black hair.

"I know." He said into the top of Sherlock's head. "I'm sorry too."

Sherlock shifted back so he could stare at John in incomprehension.

"Why are you apologizing I–"

John held a finger up to Sherlock's lips to silence him and smiled.

"You are an amazing man Sherlock Holmes." John began, cupping his hand around the detectives face and stroking the soft, pale skin, "You are brilliant, and intelligent, and supremely self-assured."

Sherlock continued to frown unsure of where John was going with this and why he constantly insisted on state the blatantly obvious.

"But when it comes to affairs of the heart you continue to be found wanting." John closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Sherlock's, "I shouldn't have given up so easily."

Sherlock started to shake his head but John brought a hand up to stop the motion.

"I shouldn't have given upon us so easily."

He pulled back a little and stared into Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock swallowed and nodded.

"I love you John."

John smiled and brought their lips together.

"I love you too."

"Shoot Sherlock! Just do it! Shoot him!"

And here they were. Sixteen weeks later. In a stand off with yet another psychotic crime lord, John held tight in his grasp, a gun to his temple and Sherlock, gun in hand, grip steady, waiting for the opportune moment.

"Yes, come on Sherlock, shoot. After all, he's only one man. And not a very interesting one if I do say so myself." Sebastian Moran's gaze moved to look John up and down, "I mean look at him, with his dull jumper to match his dull personality. Why, I wager if it wasn't for that small spark left over from his army days he'd probably blend right into the walls." He laughed then at his own joke and Sherlock continued to stand still as a statue not moving, not blinking, just waiting.

"We could be so much more, you and I." He continued, looking back up, "Together. Just imagine it."

Sherlock was getting bored of this. It was bad enough when James Moriarty was spouting off one of his psychotic diatribes but Moran was neither intelligent nor interesting enough to intrigue him. Sherlock would have interrupted by now if his instincts weren't telling him that the window of opportunity was growing closer.

"So why are you with this man? This boring, tedious, man. Everything about him, even his name denotes his drabness. John, such a nasty, common name. For a common man.

Moran waved the hand not clutched around John's neck to emphasize his point, the light from the far off lamppost catching the gleaming metal of the gun.

There it was.

Sherlock spared a glance at the beautiful, vibrant man currently being strangled by the crime boss and smiled.

"He is John." He said, lining up the shot, "But he's my John."

 

The End


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